Chapter Forty-Eight: Descend, Descend

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Gale’s pupils contracted sharply as he glanced below the dialogue box, where he saw Elia draped in a white robe, holding a lantern. Surrounding him were twisted lines and chaotic shadows, as if the artist was deliberately crafting an intangible, indescribable predicament.

“The trajectory of fate is so complex, so beyond ordinary comprehension. It is ever-changing, all-encompassing—sometimes cruel, sometimes absurd, sometimes filled with illusory hope… Even I have witnessed only a minuscule fraction of it.”

Beside this text were numerous triangular illustrations depicting battles Gale had never heard of or seen before. Yet, amid the chaos, he recognized several familiar figures: a cape-clad Kryptonian, an Amazonian princess wielding a longsword, a deity summoning thunder… These were superheroes from the Justice League and the Avengers.

Their expressions were far more ferocious than Gale remembered, locked in combat with their comrades in a palette of dark tones, a backdrop of blood-soaked graves and war-torn planets blazing in flames.

Could these scenes be the fates witnessed by the Lord of Destiny in the comics? In certain parallel universes, do heroes cease to be heroes?

Gale, somewhat confused, continued reading:

“To escape the influence of fate, I have tried many methods—far deeper and further than Red Skull’s crude experiments. To him, fate is a straight line; sever its original continuation, and you can step onto a new path. To me, fate is an endless corridor and labyrinth, with countless branching paths leading in all directions before each person. No matter the choice, one can never escape the barriers at their side.”

The scene shifted. Elia stood before a labyrinthine garden filled with innumerable diverging paths. A small caption in the lower right corner of the frame identified this as the “Garden of Forking Paths,” the former residence of the Lord of Destiny.

“As for grafting… grafting fate, in my view, is the most inadvisable approach. It’s like jumping from one railroad track to another, sometimes without even changing the destination. But I did not understand this from the start; like Red Skull and many others, I once believed that if I shed this miserable shell and hid in the bushes, I could evade fate’s gaze. Yet later, reality proved such thoughts to be mere mortal delusions. My reckless attempts brought unforeseen consequences—”

“That graft severed my humanity from the duties and authority of the ‘Lord of Destiny.’ I could not free myself from the bondage of the Book of Fate; instead, I fell into a worse predicament.”

At this point, Gale’s breath caught involuntarily. Clenching his fists, he leapt from the chair kindly offered by the Lord of Dreams and paced rapidly to calm himself, pondering: What does it mean to “sever my humanity from the responsibilities of the Lord of Destiny”?

He quickly connected a detail he had previously overlooked—except for himself, Ophelia, and Bob, everyone else believed that the Phantom Lantern and Elia Esposito were two separate individuals!

Was this a coincidence aligning with the comic’s plot, or did it signify something deeper? Could the Phantom Lantern correspond to the “Lord of Destiny,” and Elia Esposito be his humanity?

Since the events in the comic did not perfectly mirror reality, Gale dared not draw conclusions. Still, after careful thought, he felt Elia’s current state aligned with this narrative. Yet the truth might only be known to Elia himself.

Of course, his father would never discuss such matters with others.

A subtle emotion stirred within Gale, as if witnessing an invincible mountain, in an extraordinarily rare and reluctant moment, reveal a soft, even fragile side. Yet he felt no glee—only a mixture of sadness and anger.

Had he grown up like any ordinary child, or had opportunities for deep conversations with classmates, he might have realized his feelings now resembled those of a child who suddenly understands that their parents are not infallible—that the once invincible refuge can also be defeated by hardships and frustrations, trapped in helpless pain with nowhere to turn.

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How could this be? Why must it be so?

Like a fledgling freshly fledged, staring into an abyss where even the elders might stumble and fall, Gale was filled with unprecedented fear and profound empathy. Elia was never one to express himself well, and Gale, having raised him, was even more obtuse. Gale could hardly explain why he felt fear, or why he was so sorrowful… Yet he was grateful that no one else appeared in this dream; he did not want to see anyone, not even Elia.

Gale’s emotions came and went swiftly. After several deep breaths, he regained composure and returned to the comic, eager to learn the consequences of the split between the Phantom Lantern and Elia Esposito. Yet the next page did not reveal these outcomes; instead, the tone shifted:

“That was long ago. I was taught a lesson and could hear fate’s cold laughter above me. But I did not give up. Instead, I took more cautious and careful steps: I tampered with time, searching for a breakthrough through endless loops; I traversed parallel universes, trying to change those disastrous endings… At first, I thought that if none of these worked, I would resort to the maddest method I know—I would select a small passage from the Book of Fate and read it aloud.”

“That is why you, the readers, see me appear in a book named after me.”

“…”

Gale was once again stunned into silence. After a few seconds, a pressing question arose: How much of this comic corresponds to reality, and how much differs? So far, this volume’s content seemed to align with reality, but could this be merely an illusion born from his limited understanding of Elia?

How could he verify this? Should he wait until waking to tell Elia everything? That would be courting trouble.

No, wait—perhaps he could just ask his father.

Gale pondered deeply. Whether he asked or not, there was little to lose—at worst, he might get a beating. Still, discussing such matters openly was awkward.

He sighed and resolved to wait until waking.

His gaze passed over the sudden break of the fourth wall, where the Lord of Destiny spoke directly to the readers, and moved on to the subsequent plot. Gale remembered his initial purpose in reading: to find Captain America’s whereabouts. Clearly, Elia in the comic was handling this issue.

“That is why I say Red Skull’s attempts are insignificant. He still stands on that iron track leading to the end, making the path to the goal more perilous. Some forces that should not be attracted or provoked have surged from the deeper cosmos—that is Hell. The demons of Hell will bring unimaginable disaster to this planet, and I fear I cannot stop them before their arrival.”

Gale saw a bright, moon-like bat signal hanging in the sky. The Phantom Lantern form of Elia stood beneath it, not far from roaring flames that illuminated the city stained with sin in magnificent hues.

“I came too late.”

“The sacrifice… has already begun.”

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Gotham City.

Nowadays, there were few corners of sin beyond Batman’s watch. Yet human imagination was boundless. Just as Killer Croc nested in the sewers, forcing the cape-wearing vigilante and his Robin to patrol underground waterways for months amidst foul stench and install cameras at every pipe entrance, these audacious criminals now chose a public restroom as their meeting place.

More specifically, a large abandoned underground methane pit on Gotham’s outskirts—east of Arkham Island, south of the power plant, and north of the international airport. After urban redevelopment, many old facilities were gradually forgotten but not yet demolished, providing fertile ground for criminals. Someone had pried open the reinforced concrete lid, over ten centimeters thick, using the pit as a base and temporary warehouse.

Aside from the smell and psychological factors, its location was practically prime—allowing assaults on the city above, escape routes below, access to Arkham’s insane inmates on the left for advanced “experience,” and the city’s power grid on the right, saving considerable costs.

That said, not just anyone dared to venture inside, even though the remaining toxins and methane had long since been cleared.

Sam stayed only one day before feeling thoroughly marinated in the foul atmosphere. He wondered how the cult members guarding the goods endured it—perhaps their senses became numb over time. Their high priest often said, “To stand out among Gotham’s masses, one must endure what ordinary people cannot.” Otherwise, with so many lawbreakers, what makes you special?

Gotham’s supervillains were many, but notable cultists were rare. Sam followed this path due to family legacy—his father had been a petty thief who somehow acquired a mysterious magical tome. The book was filled with disordered, blasphemous knowledge, complex and cryptic. Sam’s father, with his peculiar obsessions, devoted many years to studying this barely understood text.

When Sam came of age, his father died in an unremarkable car accident, and the book naturally passed to him. After two generations of interpretation, both believed it recorded ancient magical rituals, last employed about a century ago. The initiation of these ceremonies caused catastrophic consequences, yet also, to some extent, remarkable achievements.

Unfortunately, Sam was not an ambitious man. He suspected his father remained a homebound scholar and never contested the city's notorious villains because he lacked grand ideals.

After all, Gotham had far too many villains, making the few ‘good’ people rare and precious. Once, on his way home, Sam saw a Robin two heads shorter than himself struggling to pry open a manhole cover. He dared not look closely or offer help, but at that moment, he thought:

“For this kid’s sake, so he can sleep a bit more and maybe grow taller, I’ll try my best not to become a criminal.”

…

Now, Sam had completely forgotten that resolve. One night, he pulled out the magical tome from his cabinet, studied the rituals for hours, then tucked the book under his arm and left home. Following the direction his father had once told him—where magic surged—he found himself at the cult’s main base. The cultists were as downtrodden as he was; even the revered high priest sitting on a trash can was no more impressive than the others. This group appeared not only devoid of ambition but also without a future.